


dear comrade

by Lvslie



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: .... oh dear What Shall They Do, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Arguing, Being Lost, First Meeting Gone Wrong (and then Right), Getting Together, Gratuitous Allusions to Various Aspects of it being 2017, Hurt and then some more Hurt and then Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Stranded in Sweden, and then the tag of tags:, baby scientists fuck things up, or rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: ‘Do you have to be such a dick?’ Newt then asks, finally.‘An eye for an eye,’ Hermann retorts, curtly. ‘You’re not exactly a saint, Newton.’‘Never claimed to be,’ Newt says evenly, swallowing again. He takes a step towards Hermann.[First meeting AU, where everything still goes wrong, but then there's a chance to repair it.]





	1. passing stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeleton_twins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/gifts), [HoloXam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/gifts), [CancerConstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CancerConstellation/gifts).



> \- dedicated to Erica, whose prompt "things you said at 1 am" was the anthem for writing this  
> \- and to Holo, along with the entirety of Newt contained in this. he's YOURS  
> \- and to Wen, whose Wig spurred me on today to buckle up and finally finish it
> 
> ❤️

##### 17th March 2017

 

**passing stranger,**

_6:47 am, London Stansted Airport, London, United Kingdom._

It dives upwards, smooth and sharp and keening, motion becoming smooth, a honed precise vector of kinetic energy. Bright blue light, blinding; the push of pressure on the Eustachian tubes as the body strives to equal pressure—and suddenly it’s yet more difficult, and yet more exhilarating to as much as take a breath. Stansted to Skavsta, a sibilant white straight line of shortest distance, scarcely exceeding two hours—if delays are not overcome mid-flight along with acceleration. 

The plane cuts through the first layer of clouds when he allows his eyes to close. Heart quivering, graceless, illogical, Hermann helplessly thinks, Here it comes.

* * *

 

_4:44 pm, Skavsta Airport, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

The first glide of taxiing came unexpected, silent with the headphones, tilting him out of sleep. Below, the earth expanded in wan flickers: a blurry plane of tiny lights, scattered. Newt held absolutely still, staring. After a moment, as his eyes grew blurrier still, he blinked. Swallowed. Looked down onto his hands, plucking idly at the security buckle, the frayed loose end of the belt.

‘Come on, man,’ he remembers whispering, vibrating from nerves, ‘get a grip.’

Now, sun filters through the tall windows, tricking him into thinking about the outside as belonging in the categories of warmth. It’s not: he still remembers the pervasive shock of stinging air, so strangely lucid and sharp, on the way down the wobbly steps of the mobile plane stairway, on wobbly legs, head fuzzy and confused with timezones. He remembers dozing on the bus, watching repetitive myriads of pine and the harsh sunlight of early morning and falling into shallow restless sleep filled with anticipation.

An announcement in Swedish reverberates across the sparsely populated terminal in a collected female voice, distorted slightly by the speakers into something robotic. Newt tears his eyes away from the window and looks at the young man sitting in front of him.

The light plays tricks with the features of his face: makes them almost mellow where Newt has learned them to be sharp and unforgiving. It skives down the line of his ear, the pronounced cheekbone, the smooth-shaved narrow chin and draws shadows in the bridge of nose and under the eyes. The man blinks, just once: shadows rearrange and scatter. Newt looks down onto his own hands.

 _Strangers on a train_ , he thinks, dully, regarding his stained, scratched hands, so different from the long pale fingers of the object of his attention _._

He closes his hand.

‘I’m, uh. Gonna get some water. Do you want something?’ he asks, because—hey, he _can_ be civil. He’s not a total jackass. Just because the supposed best day of his life turned out to be the worst goddamned day of his life, and he’s, like, a little bit devastated? _Doesn’t_ mean he can’t be civil. He can be civil enough, at any rate, to offer to grab a coffee or—or some weird herbal tea, probably, who the fuck _knows_ —from the miserable-looking Starbucks across the terminal and spare the man a trip. He’s not a total jackass. He can see the elegant cane propped carefully on the armrest by the folded sensible coat. 

Hermann, on the other hand, doesn’t care to prove he can be civil _at all_ _,_ it seems _._ He looks up from his tablet and stares directly at Newt.

‘No,’ he says. 

A cool, impassive gaze. Newt feels anger well up inside him and punch between the ribs with small angry fists, crying for some sort of release. He bites down at the inside of one cheek and glares, straight into the face in front of him. A stranger’s face.

He can be civil. He _can_.

‘Dude,’ he says, a warning high-pitched note emerging in his voice. ‘You’re aware I’m not the one preparing the coffee or whatever it is you drink, right? I’m just gonna carry it. You can watch me the whole way for all I care, the chances of me messing with it something are low to fucking none.’

Hermann’s jaw twitches, just once. He hasn’t moved an inch aside of that. 

‘In that case,’ he says. ‘Coffee. No sugar. No milk.’ And he returns to reading his paper.

Newt clenches his teeth and fists to keep himself from doing something as satisfying and incriminating as strangling Hermann. _The fucker—he—_ He takes a deep breath. Civil. Right. Yeah. 

‘As you wish,’ he says, brightly. 

He gathers himself to his feet, making sure to accidentally bump into Hermann’s good knee and dislodge his tablet from where it’s positioned strategically on his thigh _—‘Ha, sorry.’—_ and then saunters towards the coffeeshop. In the mild distance, the pallid blonde-haired cashier gives him a wan _I-am-dead-inside_ smile.

 

* * *

_1:15 pm, Stadshuset City Hall Conference Centre, Stockholm, Sweden._

He’s crouching in the shallow snow, his back to the wall, hands fisted in the hair and tugging persistently as he rocks himself back and forth, just so.

‘Fuck,’ Newt mumbles, and there’s a hot prickling in in his eyes and his hands are shaking and he hates himself, he really does, really fucking hates himself, ‘fuck fuck fuck fuck, fuck it.’

He fucked up. He fucked it up, all of it, and there’s no going back. There’s no going back, because _he left_ , he left already, and Newt fucking watched him go, and never even reached out to try and stop him. 

He feels like he’s choking. He can’t breathe. Crying in open now, short uncontrollable spasms of air intake, he slides down the wall and buries his head in his useless hands. It’s done. It’s all done. Fuck him, fuck his entire fucking _life_. Who thought of this? Who was it that decided people should be able to _feel_ like this? No one fucking should, not anyone, not fucking ever.

He never wants to feel anything again.

 

* * *

 

_5:25 pm, Skavsta Airport, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

Fate works in odd ways sometimes. Here they are, stuck together in a goddamned airport. Newt didn’t even get his dramatic goddamned exit.

Only, it’s not really fate. The universal order. The mathematical probability of _—_

Newt can hear Hermann’s voice in his head, monotone and nerve-gratingly uptight, reciting in perfect RP his gibberish definition of _the universe as we predict it_ , and he can feel each of his nerves firing, as though in direct response, once again into anger.

Unthinkingly, he unscrews his water bottle and takes a swig.

He fiddles with the bottle’s cap. Well. At least the despair’s mostly gone by now. Perhaps he can learn to channel the whole pathetic mess of stinky emotions something more _productive_. He can hate Hermann. That’s a new thought, sure, but not entirely baseless, seeing as _—_

There’s a soft noise when Hermann smacks his tablet down onto his skinny thigh.

‘Can you _stop?’_ he asks through gritted teeth.

‘Stop what?’ Newt asks, slightly incongruous as his mouth is still full of water. ‘Breathing? Fuck off, man.’

‘Making racket with this ridiculous … _bottle_ of yours,’ Hermann snaps, miming something that is probably meant to be the act of unscrewing the bottle but ends up looking like he’s performing _The Itsy Bitsy Spider_ puppet dance. Newt swallows his water with a wet click of his tongue and stares down at his bottle. 

It’s electric pink. BPA-free. It has a yellow _ATOMKRAFT? NEIN DANKE_ smiling sun sticker on it. Newt sniffles.

‘The hell is your problem, dude,’ he mutters, and screws the bottle slowly as to elicit as much whiny noise from it as possible. ‘I’m staying hydrated. And, you know, being _kind_ to the planet for a change.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ Hermann says in distaste. Then, as though he can’t stop himself, ‘And I suppose you’re vegan, too.’

‘Vegetarian,’ Newt corrects him, automatically. ‘Yeah. I’m guessing you’re above all that, though, huh, Hermann? Probably think it’s too low for you to stoop.’ 

‘I _think_ , Newton,’ Hermann interjects dispassionately before Newt can develop, his eyes once again glued to his tablet’s screen, ‘that there are more pressing matters to tend to—like, for instance, _aliens_ rupturing the seabed and mass-killing people in the coastal areas of the Pacific Rim—than boasting about owning a water bottle and eating tofu.’ 

‘Oh. You’d rather we all drank from plastic cups, then? Think the individual’s not gonna make a difference?’ Newt motions to Hermann’s coffee cup in distaste. ‘I, at least, aim to minimise my own negative impact.’

‘You could always minimise it to zero and drink water straight from the tap,’ Hermann says bitingly and returns to his paper. ‘And perhaps cut down the spending on tattoos and jewellery. Invest in planting _fores_ _ts_.’

Newt touches his ear instinctively and scowls at Hermann. 

Thing is, it’s all a bit rich, coming from him.

He looks— _ridiculous_ , really, all gangly in his polished oxfords and a grey V-neck cashmere sweater under a tweed blazer. Librarian glasses on a little chain. A tablet in his lap with _Reviews of Modern Physics_ open, most likely. He looks like a boy dressing up in his father’s clothes.

‘Why, am I making you uncomfortable? Do you _like_ sucking up to authority, Hermann?’ Newt asks, feeling a little lightheaded. ‘Like it to be pushed around? Capitalism sparks joy in you, eh?’ 

There’s an unpleasant blurring at the peripheries of his sightline, an alarming tremor to his hands. He pushes them, fisted, into the pockets of the too-thin leather jacket. Perhaps he’d overestimated the extent to which his aforementioned stinky mess of feelings has cooled down.

Breathy, half-hating himself for it even as he speaks, he manages, ‘Or maybe—you’re simply too afraid to stick it to the man? Now, that’s a let-down. Of all things, Hermann, I didn’t take you for a _coward_.’

Hermann’s dark eyes fixate upon Newton once again, frighteningly unmoving. Newt closes his mouth. There’s something tight and awful in his throat, constricting everything so that it’s hard to breathe. 

He doesn’t understand it: how can a person be so still, so untouched by the reality around them. How can someone human feel so fucking _cold._

Where, where in all this _is_ the person Newt’s thought he loved, the friend, all that familiarity he chased all the way from Boston, where—

‘Perhaps you and I,’ Hermann says slowly, in the low murmuring voice that barely even tries to disguise contempt, ‘have different definitions of cowardice. Newton.’ 

Newt smiles—a nasty thing, smug. It’s just about as genuine as the smile of the cashier has been. 

‘Clearly,’ he says, drumming his fingers on the seat next to him. He slams his water bottle on the table between them, so that the little red sun faces Hermann directly.

‘What’s your aim then, huh?’ he asks, a little bit too loudly. ‘Thinking you’re gonna be the next Elon, throwing around useless projects wasting money when the world clearly has enough shit to deal with as it is? Should I address my next letter to the crew of Falcon Heavy?’

When Hermann looks up from his tablet again, he looks disgusted. ‘Lower your voice, if you will, Newton. You’re making a spectacle out of yourself. And I am _not_ going to even _pretend_ I care enough to try and understand what all this _drivel_ was supposed to mean.’

‘My point is,’ Newt says, ignoring him and lurching forward in his seat so as to face Hermann, who regards him coolly from over his readers. ‘That all this snappy talk is just your way to divert attention from the _real_ elephant in the room, Hermann—which is, that you are pissed I dared negate your theories back there at Stadshuset.’

Why is he pushing for this?

They’ve been over it. Big, awful, dreadful fight over it. Why is he pushing for it, again? He feels like he’s itching out of his skin, feels like he must, but why. _Why._

Hermann inhales. For a moment, Newt thinks he spies a shadow of _emotion_ somewhere in the way his mouth tightens, and eyelids flutter, minutely. He hopes for something, anything, to cling to. 

But then Hermann closes his eyes and winces.

‘To think I’ve come all this way—to be met with _this,_ ’ he says softly, in disdain. ‘I should have known.’ 

Newt swallows, staring at his knuckles. There’s this awful sticky feeling again, welling up in his throat. What a weird fucking way to be shown your place by the universe. Perhaps everyone’s been right in the end; perhaps it’s been hubris all along, his fatal flaw. To think you could have _both_.

He’s suddenly struck with the realisation that in this moment, Hermann, the _concept_ of Hermann as he’s grown used to it, a constant and soothing entity to yearn for, is more inaccessible than it has ever been before, despite remaining in arm’s reach. Here, now, as he briefly looks at Newton with a cold disdainful penetrating gaze like he Newton is _nothing_ , like he has been nothing to begin with, like it was all nothing but one big joke—

And suddenly he’s not angry anymore, because it’s not frustrating, not really. No, it’s fucking _tragic_ , so absolutely heart-rending that Newt has to—has to _do_ something, anything, to get a grip or else it’ll be the crying in the snow again except now he has an audience, and that’s not—that’s _not—_

He can’t do it. _Goddamn it, I can’t do this._  

‘Yeah, well,’ Newt says, swallowing, ‘life’s a bitch.’

He reaches for this water bottle just in time to catch the fretful-looking flight attendant sidling nervously in his and Hermann’s direction.

‘Doctors Geiszler and Gottlieb?’ she says, in a vague endearing accent. ‘I am terribly sorry—’

 

* * *

_1:20 pm, Stockholms Centralstation, Stockholm, Sweden._

He is lonely.

There’s not much more to it: a simple causality. He is alone, has been alone, quietly and without unnecessary hysterics, for years. He is practiced at it. But he had been carrying with him—dimly, on the peripheries of awareness—a certain specific probability to refer to at his quietest and most secluded. A wan possibility—not to call it hope—that as he waits without acknowledgement, somebody, somewhere, is waiting as well.

Hermann blinks, feeling something constrict his throat. Snow has started falling.

It’s quiet, the disillusionment, cold and overwhelming. It is only a prelude, as much as he allows himself to express while still potentially exposed to strangers. It’s going to grow, it is growing, until it’ll turn unbearable. But not just yet.

He closes his eyes.

 _Well_ , he thinks. _So much for hoping._

 

* * *

_5:57 pm, Skavsta Airport, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

‘I have _not_ accounted for this,’ he says, voice stilted. Involuntarily, he clutches his hand tighter around his cane, as though seeking stability. It doesn’t much help the cold feeling of unease that has overcome him.

‘Oh,’ Newton snipes, leaning against the counter and folding his colourful arms across his chest. He smirks, a nasty smug little thing. _‘You_ haven’t _accounted_ for this. You mean you … shit, Hermann, you actually _have not_ predicted that the plane’s gonna get cancelled in your infallible model of the universe in which this event in spacetime is occurring? How very shocking, Doctor Gottlieb. Perhaps we are in a parallel universe after all. Huh. Who’d have thought.’ 

Hermann allows himself to glance at him for only a second, as usual. Anything more than that is unendurable.

Newton has proven to be … _smaller_ than Hermann has expected him to be. That’s for certain. He has a big personality and a _very_ loud voice, yes, but Hermann’s initial involuntary reaction was to marvel at how pocket-sized he seemed, how mobile and lively and young.

There’s a lot about him, truthfully, that Hermann has not—but perhaps _should_ have—expected: beginning with the five separate piercings in his ears and nose and the sleeves of Kaiju-themed tattoos stretching on his forearms and ending on a red checked flannel, _Joy Division_ T-shirt, and ripped black skinny jeans folded over muddy Doc Martens.

Above all, Hermann hasn’t expected Newt to be vicious.

It’s the one surprise he cannot bring himself to forgive. More fool he.

‘Excuse him,’ he says tiredly, addressing the flight attendant. ‘He simply cannot _stand_ not being in the centre of attention for a moment.’

Before Newton can speak up and the flight attendant’s obvious discomfort blooms into further visibility, he develops, ‘I take it we can expect our luggage to be returned to us—along with a monetary compensation for the flight expenses?’

He does not need a further dent in the budget he’d been so carefully tending to, that’s for sure. Not when he’d wasted so much on this inane conference already—inane, because its only genuine aim was to meet Newton, and when meeting Newton proved to be such a fatal mistake, everything else shifted from indulgent to merely wasteful.

The woman’s face twists, ‘I am—terribly sorry,’ she repeats, in an agonising voice that suggests she fully expects Hermann to start inflicting bodily harm with his cane if she doesn’t sound apologetic enough, ‘the expenses, of course, will be covered—along with a compensation. But I’m afraid there has been a … a mishap, with your luggage, Sir. It has been … misplaced.’

‘Ha,’ Newton crows, delighted. Hermann disregards him.

‘Misplaced?’ he bites out. ‘Misplaced where?’ 

The woman swallows. ‘It seems to have been mistakenly placed in the holding panel of the plane to Kiev.’

Hermann’s jaw twitches. ‘Well, then, can it be _removed_ from the holding panel of the plane to Kiev?’

‘Sir, I am afraid the plane to Kiev has already departed.’ 

* * *

 

_10:54 pm, Nacka, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

Newt isn’t _entirely_ sure how exactly things devolved to a point where he is huddled under a drafty shelter of a bus stop in the deep outskirts of Stockholm in deep twilight with no reception or data, no clear prospect of easily changing location in the foreseeable future and a scowling Hermann at hand.

What he muddily recalls as the more-or-less correct chronological span of events is first boarding the airport shuttle and then, somehow, managing to convince Hermann—at the time, otherwise preoccupied with the tragic fate of his Ukraine-bound luggage—that they really shouldn’t waste an any more money and, instead of paying for a cab to the hotel, ought to switch buses earlier than intended and get there the roundabout way. What he dimly singles out as the possible reason for their current predicament is his failure to acknowledge the difference between the directions a bus line might take, as well as the difference in hours of day and night during which they run.

As it is, he is facing an infinitely humbling wall of pine, midnight is approaching increasingly fast, the display has long since stopped displaying any timetable whatsoever, and Hermann seems to radiate the thirst for murder out of each cell of his body.

It’s cold. And god—then, there’s the fucking _silence_.

‘I’m sorry,’ Newt says, for the millionth time. His voice is raspy from the cold. ‘I _really_ didn’t mean to get us stranded here, dude.’

‘You’ve said,’ Hermann bites out. The tips of his ears and nose are pink. His eyes are glazed. ‘It doesn’t change the fact we are. Stranded here. Wherever _here_ even means. And it is your fault.’

Newt perks up a little: this is a _change_. Each previous attempt at apologising was met with absolute stone-cold furious silence on Hermann’s part. This oozing sneer of a response doesn’t perhaps fare much better in terms of reconciliation but at least offers _some_ communication.

‘Hey,’ he says, bracing himself and patting his thigh. ‘An idea. Why don’t we pass the time somehow? I mean—it’s still a while till eleven. The bus may still come. Maybe the display’s just—broken. What do you think, huh?’

Hermann remains silent for a moment, and Newt almost loses hope. But then.

‘Will my negative answer somehow impede your ceaseless yammering?’ he grunts.

‘Uh,’ Newt says. ‘No? But, hey. Maybe it could be a good thing. We can, you know, start over. Do the whole _Hi, I’m Newt, Hello Newt, I’m Hermann, Hello Hermann_ thing again, cause we, like, didn’t really do great the first time around, did we?’

This is, on all accounts, a dreadful idea. And he despises himself, just a little, for the shrill voice, the flippancy of it, because even while is intended as something shallow and perfunctory, his heart has still taken to beating uncomfortably fast, straining in his chest. He curses it, curses the sickening hope for an answer which at this point is as pathetic as it is involuntary.

There’s the awful silence, again. Then, miraculously, Hermann speaks out.

‘ _Hello, Newton_ ,’ he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. _‘I’m Hermann_.’ 

Valiantly trying to suppress a smile and somehow calm his stupid heart, Newt sniffles, straightening on the bench. He extends a—somewhat shaky, damn it, but it can definitely be blamed on the cold—hand towards Hermann who peers at it suspiciously before raising his wary eyes to Newt’s face.

Newt is not deterred. ‘Nice to finally meet you, Hermann,’ he says, and, _fuck_ him, it turns out—well, not exactly _soft_. But softer than it should.

For a moment, Hermann holds his gaze, his expression strangely blank. Then, without another word, he takes Newt’s hand by the very tips of his fingers and gives it an awkward half-hearted wiggle of a shake.

Hermann’s fingers are very cold and very long. The skin of Newt’s hands seems to be tingling.

‘So,’ he says, in false joviality, after Hermann withdraws his hand and shuffles back to his angry slouch on the other side of the bench. _‘Hermann_. What are you working on, right now?’

Hermann, if it is even possible, stiffens. His voice turns from sarcastic to cold and he juts his chin out, as though in defiance. ‘I thought you’ve made your opinion on _that_ very clear.’

‘Uh, no, dude, I made my opinion on your presentation about the goddamned multiverse theory, _which sucked dick_ , very clear.’

That’s a difference. It’s two different things. The presentation made no goddamned sense.

Hermann opens his eyes but doesn’t turn his head, instead staring upwards, still unmoving.

‘If you are so opposed,’ he says finally, ‘to the concept of a theory constituting half the research topics featured on the event you attended, then what was your _point_ in attending at all?’

Newt blinks. ‘What?’

‘Very well, I shall put it in _simpler_ terms for you,’ Hermann grits out, eyes still plastered to the sky like he’s fucking praying to the mild impression of the Big Dipper visible above. ‘Why did you come here?’

‘To the conference? I came to—’

 _Meet you_ , Newt knows but does not say. The thought alone leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The ridiculousness of him igniting his conversation strikes him full force along with the direct reminder of all it entails. He swallows, wincing.

‘Hold the fuck up,’ he says instead, frowning, as Hermann persists in something of a victorious silence. ‘What do you mean, _theory constituting half the research topics?_ We’re not here to discuss crackpot time travel, dude, we’re here to talk about the—’ 

‘Kaiju?’ Hermann sneers, and Newt feels a sharp sting, similar to all the times this conversation has happened before, but worse. _Worse_.

‘Quite. But you’ll observe, Newton, that the Kaiju did not materialise from thin air.’

Something in Newt’s brain falls into its place. ‘Holy shit, _that’s_ what you’ve been getting at? You were trying to—to what, postulate they come from a different fucking dimension?’

‘Not trying to postulate,’ Hermann says, coldly. ‘I have _proven_ so.’

‘Shit, really?’ Newt snaps. ‘Cause from whatever jargon-ridden ass-licking you’ve gone and done there, I really couldn’t tell.’

Hermann stiffens. ‘Do you not understand,’ he says, in a low voice that seems to mask something raw underneath, ‘the concept of amassing credibility, Newton? Are you honestly so far removed from the reality of academia, with your free-pass of a hailed wunderkind, with your _test tubes_ and _organs_ and a playground of a lab, to get it into your head that in order to be heard, you have to be meticulous, and in order to be approved, you need to be correct? That you need to have a background? I could have, of course, come to the conference and spewed inciting gibberish about models I may predict based off what I already know and highlighted the position of my father to strengthen own credibility—instead, I have demonstrated method and foundations for further research an opportunity for which I now hope to be granted. If that’s, as you have mentioned, _cowardice_ to you—then I don’t think you and I have much more to say to each other.’

Newt feels dazed. He didn’t quite expect such a snapback, but he _is_ slowly learning not to expect _anything_ from Hermann. 

‘Wow,’ he says, feeling slightly sick to the stomach. ‘That’s, kind of. A _lot_ to unpack right here, buddy. And I don’t even—’

‘This is _ridiculous_ ,’ Hermann interrupts, before he manages to say anything else. He’s looking away, into the dim impression of the road ahead of them. ‘It’s three past midnight now. The bus is clearly not coming. I cannot believe you have landed me in a situation like this.’

‘Hey, man, it’s not like I manhandled you into coming here with me,’ Newt snaps, irrationally stung. ‘As far as I recall, you were pretty keen on saving money. I know I fucked up, but I didn’t mean to—’

‘I know you didn’t _mean_ to, Newton,’ Hermann interjects, turning to look him in the face. He looks an odd mixture of irritated and defeated. ‘But perhaps instead of wasting time picking fights and making it all even more unendurable, you could consider sparing us both at least a fraction of dignity. Be _quiet_ , for god’s sake.’ 

Newt blinks. Turns his head. His heart has calmed down. 

‘Okay,’ he says, quietly.

 

* * *

_11:26 pm, Nacka, Stockholm, Sweden._

‘Wormholes,’ Hermann says at once, the word decisive and startling in the drowsy silence.

‘What,’ Newt croaks out, uncomprehending. He stares at Hermann; whose large dark eyes are motionless in the dim light.

He’s been dozing, head thrown back against the bus shelter, and he has an errant thought that perhaps he hasn’t woken up and Hermann is in fact a figment of his feverish imagination.

‘Wormholes. I study wormholes.’

Newt scrunches up his face in disbelief, ‘Jesus, dude—I only asked, like, three hours ago and you snapped at me for even trying.’

Hermann is silent for a moment. ‘Very well then,’ he says quietly, peeved, ‘I won’t bother you.’

Newt groans. ‘No, I—fuck. Can we have a conversation that doesn’t devolve into … _this_? Are we even capable of it?’ 

Hermann stares at him: sullen eyes in a wan pale face, mouth a thin lopsided line. ‘Direct that query at yourself, Newton,’ he says tightly.

Newton swallows down a curse. 

‘So,’ he says instead, through gritted teeth. ‘Wormholes. What about them.’

Hermann clears his throat. ‘Well,’ he says, voice strangely stymied. ‘In theory, traversable wormholes, or four-dimensional portals through space-time, were postulated to work something like this: At one end, the irresistible pull of a black hole would suck matter into a tunnel connected at the other end to a “white hole,” which would spit matter out at a location far away from the material’s point of origin in space and time. What I aim to prove is not so much that the Breach is a wormhole, as that is already observable—but soon enough data, we will be able to deduce first the location at which each traversing event starts, and then, consequently, the frequency of the following ones and location of the appearance of the consecutive white holes. We could, in theory, remove the competitive advantage of the Kaiju, which is the element of surprise.’ 

Newt opens his mouth, but Hermann continues in a low vibrating voice, sounding a little delirious. ‘But that is not all. I theorise that, with enough data gathered, we may study the physics of the wormhole itself and perhaps, learn how to replicate it in laboratory environment.’ 

Newt considers it. ‘That’s fucked up,’ he declares, flatly.

‘Really?’ Hermann says in a distant voice. His eyes are a little red. ‘We’re given a chance, only one, to touch a part of the universe we have previously only predicted. I think it’s quite beautiful.’

‘Hermann, we have a chance to study that part of universe hands-on, _right now_ ,’ Newt counters. When he’s met with a look of misunderstanding on Hermann’s face, he says, ‘The Kaiju? A living, breathing, observable part of it that we can actually touch and analyse?’

Hermann blinks. ‘Oh. Yes. But that’s _your_ division.’

For a moment, Newt waits, expecting some sort of a biting remark or a jibe, but none comes: nothing except a passive acknowledgement of Newt’s field of study. It’s—jarring. It hasn’t occurred to him Hermann’s earlier dismissal of it could have been a defence mechanism in response to Newt’s criticism of his topic of choice. It’s been surprising enough to hear it from Hermann that Newt’s kind of—well. Assumed it was what it usually tended to be: yet another scientist dismissing _Newt_ as a scientist.

For the first time perhaps, he considers his harsh treatment of Hermann’s presentation as something to regret—not so much for the merit behind it, as he still finds the whole thing as irrelevant as it is confusing—but the potentially aggressive way of expressing his doubts about it.

‘I find it a little unexpected,’ he says finally, clumsily, unsure how to deal with the sudden introspection. ‘That _that’s_ what you choose to focus on right now. I thought—from the letters. I thought you’d go for something more hands-on. Jaeger coding. Drift Theory. Stuff like that.’

Something in Hermann’s face changes, then, twists into something unfamiliar. He is quiet for a long moment.

‘Yes, well,’ he says finally, very quietly. ‘As ridiculous a reason as it may seem to you—I, ah. Find that it reminds me too much of what I lack.’

Newt frowns. ‘What? Aw, come on, cut it off with the fake modesty. We both know the wormhole replication you were going on about earlier would require equally, if not _more_ advanced maths than this.’

‘That’s,’ Hermann says, haltingly, and clutches at his cane, drawing it to himself as though to protect it. He’s staring ahead once again, ‘not what I meant.’

His hand tightens around the handle. Something occurs to Newt, a cold slither of a disturbing thought.

‘Wait,’ Newt says, slowly. ‘You didn’t want to be a _pilot_ , did you?’

Hermann turns to him, sharply, and Newt is thrown off by the flash raw emotion visible across his face for a brief moment before he manages to compose himself. 

‘What?’ Hermann says, sarcastically, mustering a crooked smile that is somehow even less pleasant than his earlier utter lack of emotion. ‘Is it really that fundamentally ridiculous? Don’t worry, you are not alone in thinking that. My fanciful ideas were dispelled soon enough. I was offered a place in the Academy—on the condition that I _don’t_ become a pilot.’

He smiles again, but it looks more like a grimace. ‘Apparently,’ he says, ‘they’d rather I stick to my irrelevant _jargon-ridden ass-licking_ , as you’ve put it, and predict a line of defence for their Jaegers to pursue.’

Before Newt can scramble his thoughts together enough to muster up something— _anything_ that wouldn’t turn out as a pathetic _I’m sorry_ , Hermann sniffles and says, in a flat voice. 

‘Well. There’s no use for playing ‘what if’. I’d be grateful if we could—change the topic.’

 

* * *

 

_11:58 pm, Nacka, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

‘You look cold,’ there comes Newton’s voice, oddly stymied. ‘Your lips have gone blue.’

Hermann blinks, dispersing drowsiness.

‘Ah. Yes. That’s because I am,’ he manages, hoarse and vaguely miserable, which dampens the intended curtness considerably.

Silence recommences. It’s getting _colder_ , the wind slithering in beneath the fabric of the clothes, biting the skin. Hermann can feel himself shivering, just so, and he suspects it’s pointless to try and conceal it. Newton must have noticed as well.

‘There’s another stop nearby,’ Newton says, after a beat. ‘I saw it on the map before it died, and I _think_ it’s a gas station. It’s not that far away; around a mile. We could ask someone to pick us up or just, get a cup of coffee, some Wi-Fi. A charger. Call an Uber, if that shit even _covers_ this area. Whatever the hell this area even is.’

Hermann inhales sharply. His right hand tightens on the cane. ‘Perhaps it’s not—for you.’

Newt looks at him, misunderstanding. Hermann swallows down the rest of his dignity.

‘Perhaps it’s not far away by your—by _normal_ standards,’ he says, haltingly, refusing to look in Newton’s direction at all. ‘But not for me. I’m afraid I’m unable to cover that distance. I realise that’s … inconvenient, but my only option is to wait for the first morning bus.’

There’s a moment’s silence.

‘Then I’ll go,’ Newt says, plainly. ‘If you’re okay with waiting, I mean.’

Hermann doesn’t move. 

It’s a calculated, precise manoeuvre, one he’s practiced throughout the ages: not to betray the hurt, the nauseating disillusionment by even a _twitch_ of his body. Never to expose his own vulnerability where it can be taken advantage of. After a measured moment, he curtly nods his head.

‘Very well,’ he says, evenly. ‘I will ask of you, Newton, once you find the signal—to notify the hotel reception I will not make it to my substitute flight tomorrow morning. And that I’ll be extending my stay. If you’d be so kind to let someone know where I am, I would be grateful as well.’

There’s a moment of oddly heavy silence which follows his words, that makes Hermann wonder if his intended laconic words did not, after all, betray some of the raw ache in chest. Then Newton moves, leaping to his feet and walking three angry steps before turning jauntily and facing Hermann.

‘Fuck,’ he says, running his hand through his hair. ‘Jesus _fuck_ , Hermann.’ 

Hermann’s brow furrows. ‘I’m not sure I’m—’

‘I’m not gonna fucking _leave_ you here,’ Newt interrupts him, voice loud and shrill. ‘Alone in the fucking forests of Sweden till the crack of dawn while I fuck off somewhere in the meantime. Do you understand that? I meant. I fucking _meant_ , if you’re okay with waiting till I run to that station, get help and get back, then I’ll _go_. Christ.’

Clearly beyond frustrated, Newton makes a move as though to kick the air, and then stomps back to the bench and slumps next to Hermann so forcefully it wobbles.

‘I mean,’ he says, angrily, ‘ _who_ do you think I am _?_ ’

 

‘I—ah,’ Hermann says, thrown off balance by a bizarre mixture of shame and relief. ‘I did not …’ 

He hesitates. ‘Put simply,’ he says after a while, cautiously, ‘far be it to me to assume my difficulties to be someone else’s priority. Forgive me. It wasn’t my intention to … offend you.’ 

Wincing mildly, he curses the inevitable pathetic overtone of his phrasing. He sets his jaw and hazards a furtive glance at Newton.

Newton has his elbow propped on the knee—ripped denim stretches, cutting horizontal marks onto the bare skin and Hermann can’t help but wonder how _he_ is not shivering—and is pinching the bridge of his nose, glasses pushed up into his hair. He looks … tired, perhaps. Defeated.

When he speaks, his words are strangely muffled. ‘I’m not just _someone_ , though. Or at least, I thought …’

He breaks off.

 

It sounds—well, like a decent _start_ to a conversation Hermann simultaneously wants and knows ought not to happen now, not when they are both so tired and on edge. Perversely, he wants to push it further, perhaps ask, _Ah, yes, what did you think? What_ did _you expect?_

It’s the same part of his consciousness which wants Newton to look up, angry and frustrated, and perhaps shove Hermann, perhaps pin him to the bench below them or push against a tree, and do something rough and urgent, to at least relieve _this_ years-long ache of wanting, at least alleviate _something_ —

‘If you want to go—now’s the time,’ Hermann says instead, quietly. ‘Before it gets colder.’

It hardly makes much sense, the precaution: it’s going to get colder anyway, and the only thing to shield Newton from it would be to proceed with the plan as Hermann has originally envisioned it: for Newton to leave and them both to part ways—presumably—for good. A deep-ingrained mentality of guilt tells Hermann he ought to be ashamed of his reluctance to _be a man enough_ and resolve things thus, once and for good, without profiting off someone decent enough to feel obliged to help.

But he still, naively, imagines himself able to somehow coax that frail line of communication out of Newton if they are to be given just a little more time together. So when Newton nods sullenly and gathers himself from the bench—shoulders hunched, boots heavy on the pavement—Hermann cannot stop the question from escaping him.

‘You’ll—come back?’

He waits, irrationally, heart in his throat, until Newton turns and looks at him. His eyes are slightly reddened, glazed from sleep-deprivation behind the glasses. His face seems alien, strange. The face of a stranger. 

Hermann swallows. 

‘I will,’ Newton says, voice dull. ‘Promise.’

 

* * *

 

_00:37 am, Nacka, Stockholm, Sweden._

Believing Newton five minutes after he’s left has proven considerably easier than believing him nearly forty minutes into his absence.

The cold has grown piercing. He can feel it in his leg, a slow angry bite of radiating discomfort. His head is swimming with the nausea of barely suppressed panic. His hands are trembling.

What a dreadful way to be reduced, once again, to someone incapable of being independent, someone entirely at another person’s mercy—another person, who, in spite of all vain hopes, proved a stranger.

He feels pathetic: paper thin, faulty, young. He closes his eyes and briefly wishes for Karla’s annoyed familiar voice to scold him in stern German, pull into a perfunctory but welcome hug, then take by the hand and lead back home, from where Hermann had strayed too far into the forest and remained, paralysed, breathing quickly in the growing darkness.

It’s dark, now, too, when Hermann opens his eyes. It’s been dark long _enough_ for his eyes to learn the new colours: dirty greys and blues, making his hands into those of a dead man. Making him feel so much younger than he has felt in such a long while. He swallows. His eyes hurt with suppressing something shameful.

‘But I _am_ young,’ Hermann whispers, to his splayed hands. He raises his face upwards, as if to force the tears back, reverse their appearance into nonexistence. 

It’s anger, now, this emotion; anger whose futility so concentrated it’s grown unendurable. It chokes him as he speaks, in a halting strange voice, ‘I’m young. It should not be so difficult. I should not be so lonely.’

Nothing answers except the unfamiliar jugging of a bird. He clenches his hand on the cane’s handle and closes his eyes, jaw set, breathing in the stinging pine-scented air.

Gradually, the humming of trees grows louder, drowning out birdsong. Ripples of wind laid one upon another, building up into one another and turning into noise, a soft overwhelming noise overhead, voiceless lament of the trees, bent and ruffled above, swaying in the dense dark backdrop of the sky. Hermann closes his eyes.

‘What if it happens now,’ he says aloud in a hoarse voice. ‘What if the world ends now.’

He imagines the trees all falling down, one by one in a perfect consequence, to cover the ground, burying him and the rest of the life around in pine and earth—uprooted by a blue trembling force from below, a force he will never look in the face.

Something scattered and cold hits his face and Hermann imagines waves, silent, drowning him. Them, the whole world, everything swallowed in the continued thunder of the wind and the water, everything forgotten, wiped out, redone. Everything dead, everything new. Everything ending _alone_.

When he opens his eyes, the wind has quietened. It’s raining: a shimmering cold drizzle upon his upturned face, wan streaks of water trailing down from eyelids to chin, as though he’s been foolish enough to grieve anything. 

In the mild distance, a doubly punctured light is approaching, carrying with it a steady noise of an engine. Something large, a truck, slowly draws to a halt about ten yards from Hermann. He watches it, unmoving, until a small silhouette emerges from the door—and, outlined by the faint yellow glow, starts towards him. 

Against all reason, Hermann feels his heart pick up its pace.

_Newt._


	2. fellow traveller

##### 18th March 2017

 

**fellow traveller,**

* * *

_1:26 am, Rudsjövägen, Stockholm, Sweden._

The house is small, secluded. There’s a tiny rectangular chalkboard pinned to the wall, with information written in pink chalk about the rules of stay and pay. The hallway itself is narrow, lit sparsely by the wan silvery moonlight trickling in through the window adjacent to the kitchen door.

Entering, Newt blinks a couple of times to shake away exhaustion and attune his already not exactly stellar vision to the shimmering dim light inside. Everything seems neat, if a little dusty, and strangely welcoming. The thought of leaving one’s house at the mercy of strangers strikes Newt as a little insane, but—well. He’s far from complaining. Kudos to the trusting Swedes, and all that.

‘You alright, man?’ he asks, swivelling to face Hermann, who has been exceptionally quiet all the way in the truck, aside from a fairly heart-rending _‘you’ve come back’_ uttered when Newt approached the bus stop, and a very quiet _‘thank you’_ directed at the driver when they got off the vehicle.

Presently, he is slowly unbuttoning his coat with stiffened fingers which seem not to be particularly cooperative. For a moment, Newt watches him fumble, feeling something inexplicable constrict his chest at the sight.

‘Why do you,’ Hermann suddenly demands, voice harsh and hoarse, ‘keep _looking_ at me?’

He seems disturbed, visibly, though he very pointedly doesn’t look at Newton, instead continuing to yank at the buttons. Momentarily at a loss, Newton struggles to formulate a coherent reply. Slowly, lowers his backpack to the ground, and looks down. 

Why _does_ he? He’s been asking himself the same question over and over again, all the miserable way to the gas station, a relentless harrowing litany of _what am I still hoping for?_ After all the disappointment, after all the unbearable grey gooey clump of profound rejection getting stuck in his chest, why was the prospect of abandoning Hermann at the bus stop so inherently _unacceptable?_ Why? Why does he care, why _still_ , why does he keep caring? 

Seeing the relief on his face when he _did_ return to the bus stop was like a punch in the gut.

Finally remembering himself, Newton croaks out, ‘Because. I don’t know.’

He considers something flippant, and ultimately settles on something that is the closest to truth he dares voice. ‘Couldn’t really do it before. Just kept imagining.’

Hermann snorts. When Newt looks up at him, he seems to be smiling in that peculiar way which turns out more like a grimace.

‘Well,’ he says scathingly. ‘We already know reality didn’t meet expectation. You might as well look away.’

There’s a moment of silence. The knot inside Newton’s chest tightens.

‘Do you have to be such a dick?’ Newt then asks, finally.

‘An eye for an eye,’ Hermann retorts, curtly. ‘You’re not exactly a saint, Newton.’

‘Never claimed to be,’ Newt says evenly, swallowing again. He takes a step towards Hermann, then stops himself.

‘What brought this on?’ he asks, hesitantly. ‘You didn’t seem to care enough to elucidate the problems you have with me before. Just kind of shut off instantly and went into your bitchy radio silence.’

‘Well, you may treat the fact I _am_ voicing my discomfort now,’ Hermann says through gritted teeth, ‘as proof that I care enough to withstand the embarrassment.’

‘Oh fuck, _thank_ you,’ Newt snaps, and it comes out _loud_. Hermann flinches; but Newt is too far gone to consider it. ‘How fucking benevolent of you to bestow your shred of attention upon me!’

‘My attention on you,’ Hermann says, voice growing quieter as though in opposition to Newt. ‘You want me to give you more _attention_. Sometimes, Newton, I cannot _comprehend_ you.’

‘Is it _really_ that hard to understand?’ Newt shouts, his voice increasing in pitch. 

‘I mean—fuck,’ his voice breaks, pathetically, on the vowel. His eyes are wet, and he hates it, but he cannot stand the ache of it, cannot, not any longer.

‘If you wanted this to be lighter, an acquaintanceship, professional colleagues, no strings attached or whatever—that’s fucking _fine_. I just mistook it for something else, okay? But you could’ve been—honest about it, clearer, and not keep me hanging all the time, starved for some sign of attention from you that will make feeling this pathetic seem worth it! While you—while you treat me like _nothing_ , like a goddamned fucking stranger, and ... That’s just—that’s fucking _cruel_ , man.’ 

For a moment, Hermann persists in silence, levelling Newt with his unmoving hollow eyes. Hermann: a pale face, a damning expression, a frigid demeanour. His hand clenched so hard around the handle of his cane the knuckles have gone white. It’s infuriating, beyond infuriating, to still find him attractive. Subjective beauty, he thinks viciously, should be revoked by betrayal.

And that’s—that’s what it feels like. 

Then Hermann says, sharply, ‘This is really rich, coming from you, Newton—to accuse _me_ of cruelty.’

‘What?’ Newt says, raising his face to frown at Hermann despite best efforts.

Surprisingly, Hermann is not looking at him. He is standing straight, jaw set to the point of visible discomfort, eyes fixed the wall ahead. His face has gone white.

‘If I do not _show_ that I care,’ he then says, haltingly, ‘then you could perhaps consider it a defence mechanism. And perhaps ask yourself what I am defending myself from. I am quiet because I won’t _stand_ being punished for exposing myself once again. I am quiet, but it doesn’t make me inhuman. I came here with every intent of coming to terms with my feelings, Newton—only to—to—’

Hermann breaks off. Swallows. Something cold and nauseating coils inside Newt, tightening.

‘Only to find _me?_ ’ he supplies, with a wry smile. ‘Ah. Well, in that _case_. Sorry.’

Hermann finally looks at him and Newt has to stop himself from backing away at the sheer cold fury in his expression.

‘Only to find the _one person_ whose opinion mattered to me,’ Hermann seethes, voice low and cutting, ‘showing me _exactly_ how much my opinions mean to him. Which is _nothing_.’

‘So you’ll excuse me,’ he continues, when Newt remains silent, ‘for not counting on your consideration to manifest where it failed a level so basic and unexpected.’

Newt feels—well.

Dizzy.

Something like angry, still, a low thrumming buzz of resentment and rejection firing his neurons into instinctive and relieving hostility. A spiky feeling, defiance, pushing him away from Hermann, away from the awful dark pulsating source of it all, into what’s old and known and internalised. He wants—relief, wants to maybe punch something, kick, make a mess. He wants movement, wants to get out. _Out_.

But what Hermann has said isn’t remotely what Newt had expected to hear, and while it’s perhaps neither fair nor easy to swallow, it’s also suddenly palatable enough to try and follow through with understanding.

So he stands in place, against all instinct, breathing unevenly and staring at Hermann with eyes that are wet enough by now to betray the entire childish mess of emotions raging in his chest. He fists his hands at his sides.

‘I never said,’ Newt says slowly, in a voice that is so controlled and even he barely even sounds like his own, ‘your opinion means nothing to me.’

‘You did not have to say it.’

‘The fact I don’t _agree_ with you doesn’t mean I can’t respect you, Hermann. That’s not how human relationships work.’

‘I am fairly sure,’ Hermann responds, coldly, ‘that humiliating the other person in front of strangers is hardly an attribute of a working human _relationship_ either.’

Newt feels dazed. He’s unused to this: negotiating. Relationships aren’t meant to be a fucking minefield of diplomacy—or are they? If so, fuck if Newt hasn’t been doomed from day one. He’s tense, now, jittery: digging deeper into the wound seems somehow masochistic, against all logic, and here he is, pushing and pushing further, as though daring Hermann to snap and put Newt back into place. He feels like a pioneer, maybe. Maybe, again—just a child.      

‘Hermann, that … that wasn’t me _humiliating_ you,’ he says, making a step closer and raising his hands to his temples. ‘How could you think that, don’t you fucking _know_ me? I say a lot of shit, okay? I see something to question, I question it, nothing fucking personal in it—’

‘And perhaps that is the problem, Newton!’ Hermann cuts in, raising his voice for the first time, and Newt is rendered speechless by the startling sight of him moving forward, leaning heavily on his cane.

Obviously in discomfort, Hermann staggers, determinedly, across the hallway and towards Newt. It’s difficult to restrain himself from out to help. It’s difficult not to _look away_.

Newt consciously doesn’t do either, even as Hermann draws close enough that he looms over Newt, tall and dark and lanky.

(Man, _fuck_ that height difference.) 

‘Perhaps I expected something _personal_ to be there after all,’ Hermann says, and his voice is surprising again.  Quiet, measured. ‘What a comfortable double standard you have, Newton, to expect _my_ visible devotion and trust in you, when _you_ fail to even acknowledge me as anything other than a banal stimulant, yet another _thing to question_.’

‘Hey, that’s not …’ Newt begins, and cuts himself off. He’s suddenly at a loss how to put in words that  _look_ , _I knew I’d fuck it up, I knew it, and maybe I just wanted it done with quickly_ _. Maybe I just wanted it to be easier. Deep water from the start, and of course you wouldn’t be insane enough to accept it. But it would be easier to have it quick. Like tearing off a band aid. Or so I thought._  

For a moment, silence comes between them, tense and swathing. For the first time, perhaps, Newt lets himself look long enough into Hermann’s face to detect all the human misgivings of it: purple-grey tired shadows under the eyes, unnatural strain of his pronounced jawline, something defiant in his eyes that is maybe not so much disgust as it is— 

Sadness? It’s a _stupid thought_ , when Newt’s eyes flutter down, marginally, to Hermann’s wide endearing mouth. How easy it would be to lean even closer. To make sure that he is, _really_ , human. To make sure there’s been something in it all Newt didn’t misunderstand.

Suddenly, he finds himself considering taking the lead in doing something he finds as absolutely frightening. It would not be how he’s imagined it. And he has. Imagined it.

When he looks up again, Hermann’s eyes are awfully red-rimmed. He seems—crestfallen, really, and Newt realises his continuing silence must have been taken for an answer.

‘Perhaps it was foolish of me,’ Hermann says, mouth twisting downwards. Newt blinks. There’s something tight and barely-controlled in Hermann’s voice that finally makes something inside him click into motion.

‘What was?’ he asks, hoarsely.

‘To expect anything more than this.’

Under Newt’s open gaze, Hermann looks, all of the sudden, just as uncertain as he is, just as stricken with the same overwhelming realisation of physical nearness.

He blinks, thrown off, and Newt watches the motion of his lashes over the pale smooth skin.

He picks up, in a quiet, halting voice, and Newt _thinks_ of touching him.

‘What humans make each other out to be—how could _that_ ever prove in any way accurate? What I thought about you, or you me. These are, in the end, nothing but the fabrications of a brain without data. Promises. Speculation. Guesses. All _blind_. All wrong.’

‘Yeah, but,’ Newt croaks out, finding his own voice strange. The restless feeling is back but—changed. Warmer. He lips are dry. ‘Sometimes, a blind guess works. Serendipity, and all that shit.’

‘Not quite often enough,’ Hermann says curtly. He swallows. ‘You ask: do I know you? In truth, Newton, I don’t _know_.’ 

Newt blinks. A small ache, again, between the ribs. 

‘I don’t know _what_ I was expecting, either. Perhaps simply for the understanding we … we seemed to share to carry over into reality. Perhaps something more, an end to—’

He trails off, uncertainly. Swallows again. His mouth remains parted, slightly.

Newt watches his throat work. He licks his lips, before managing, ‘An end to _what?’_

Hermann smiles wanly. It’s striking, again, to see him look suddenly so different: he smiles, suddenly bashful, and he is somehow _young_. _There it is_ , Newt thinks, heart painful in his chest, _there you are, I’ve—_

‘Loneliness?’ Hermann says. ‘In spite of all your claims—I’m only human in the end.’

Newt leans in and kisses him.

 

* * *

_1:26 am, Rudsjövägen, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

‘This, this is,’ Hermann manages, breathy and a little delirious, between Newton’s kisses, ‘we are _guests_ here, Newton, this is not according to the _etiquette—’_  

‘God, Hermann, live a little,’ Newton says, half-laughing. He has managed to steer Hermann to the wall and push against it and now moves in to brush his parted mouth along Hermann’s jawline. Then he slides lower, angry, bruising kisses on the neck, and Hermann’s hand comes up to clutch at his soft hair on instinct.

He nudges Newt’s face up, then, and kisses him back properly, roughly. He feels Newton’s wandering trembling hands fumble as he shoves them under his half-undone coat, rucking up his sweater and erratically unbuttoning the shirt. He tugs Newton forward, closer, and they collide with the wall, Newt gasping once—a high, needy sound—as he tries to undo his belt.

‘I _missed_ you, you fucker,’ Newt breathes, breaking the kiss to press his mouth again to Hermann’s pulse point.

Hermann gives a startled half-laugh, trailing his hand up Newt’s back and between his shoulder blades, ‘You could not have _missed_ me,’ he mutters. ‘We have never _met_.’

‘I know,’ Newt says, voice strangely tight. Hermann can feel his damp breath on his neck. ‘And I missed you so fucking much I couldn’t fucking breathe. You dick. You absolute fucking _dick_.’

Newt tugs on Hermann’s belt loops, yanking him closer by the hips into another angry kiss and then—

The pain comes sharp, blinding, forcing a helpless sound from Hermann’s throat and making him freeze, one hand pressed to Newton’s back, the other convulsing around his upper arm. He fights the involuntary urge to bury his face in Newton’s chest and slump onto him, instead drawing himself away waveringly away. He feels—blindsided, disoriented. Clumsily, he gropes for the wall behind him.

Distantly, he picks up on the incoherent wisps of sound of Newton’s voice: rushed, concerned. ‘You okay? Hermann? Hermann, dude, _talk_ to me, are you—’ 

‘No,’ Hermann grits out. ‘Yes. I’m fine. Let _go_ of me.’

He wrenches himself from Newton and stagger his way towards the shoe cabinet. Stiffly, he manages to lower himself to a sitting position, fighting the sudden paralysing nausea.

‘What’s wrong, can I—did I do something? Fuck, Hermann, I’m _sorry_ , I’m so sorry, can I—’ Newt blurts, clumsy and frantic as he hovers above with wide eyes and ridiculously ruffled hair, mouth still red, and Hermann very nearly laughs.

‘No,’ he says, abruptly. He forces himself to meet Newton’s eyes. ‘There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing aberrant here. This is—this is what I am.’

He winces again, trying to ignore the prickling of his eyes, trembling of his mouth which he suppresses by clenching the jaw—blame it on the _pain_ , perhaps, _damn_ it, even that would be less unbearable. As enduring Newton’s hunted expression becomes too much, Hermann yanks one of his hands up to redo the shirt buttons. His last words have come out resentful, almost vicious, he is aware. It’s still better than allowing for the alternative. 

‘But I told you this,’ he says after a while, aching and strained. ‘And you didn’t listen.’ 

He can feel it, feel Newton’s wide round eyes boring into him in the resulting silence, and somehow the awareness of it is unbearable.

‘Stop,’ Hermann says sharply, breathing unevenly. He is clutching at his good knee so hard it _hurts_ , too. ‘Stop _looking_ at me.’ 

His throat closes up. There’s a moment of silence.

‘Hermann,’ Newton then says, quietly. He says nothing more. 

Hermann waits in humiliating silence, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the blurry shape of a window ahead, for some logical follow-up. He will not endure pity. A placating remark, he’ll bear, an apology— _perhaps_ , but that is at least unlikely. But he half-hopes only for something swift and decisive. 

How much easier it would be, then, to part ways. To have it voiced: _I expected you to be something else, something easier and less of—this._

He’s given no more time to think before a rustling of fabric alerts him to Newton’s response. He’s kneeling down, one knee bent in the air, and tugging at Hermann’s nearly-numb ankle, easing his shoe off. 

‘Hermann,’ Newt repeats, in a low voice as he stiffens. ‘I listened.’ When he presses his thumbs into the hollows of his ankle joint and pushes at the instep, Hermann inhales sharply.

After a scarce moment of stillness, Newt reclines his head and rests it against Hermann’s bent leg, forehead touching the knee. ‘You’re really cold,’ he mutters. ‘It’s _not_ good. You need a change of clothes.’

Not trusting himself to remain as collected as he needs be except at his most laconic, fearing the tightness in his throat and stinging of the eyes to escalate into something horrifying, Hermann says, scarcely above a whisper, ‘My things are gone. To … Kiev.’ 

Newt looks up. There’s a small hesitant smile on his face. ‘Contrary to popular belief,’ he says, cradling Hermann’s foot in both hands and pressing it to his stomach. ‘I do own more than _one_ set of clothing.’

* * *

_1:57 am, Rudsjövägen, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

The kitchen is brighter when he makes it out of the bathroom, already slightly woozy on painkillers. A soft yellow light from a table lamp mellows the dark into something homelike. Across the room, in the corner next to the fridge, he makes out the soft shape of Newton, his sleeves pushed up, raking through the white-painted cupboards. He seems illogically vivid. 

Hermann pauses in the doorway, hesitant. He feels inexplicably exposed. He is wearing Newton’s clothes—a T-shirt, a grey hoodie, socks and sweatpants, and it’s distracting in a way Hermann can’t quite pinpoint. Soft in an odd way, pervaded with a scent which stems in part from an unfamiliar detergent, but is nevertheless unavoidably similar to how Newton smells. Which, again, is _distracting_.

Something canned falls from the cupboard with an echoing noise and hits Newton on the head.

‘Shit,’ he hisses, clutching at the bridge of his nose. ‘Shit, shit. Ow. Shit, god _damn_ it.’ 

Hermann shuffles into the kitchen, frowning, his unease mostly forgotten. ‘Will you be needing stitches? I am no nurse but if _necessary—’_

Newton swivels on his heel, eyes wide, still shielding half of his face. His glasses, at the very least, don’t seem to be broken.

For a moment, as he takes notice of Hermann, he also seems to lose track of reality. Dropping his hand from his face, he plucks at a frying pan nearby and raises it from the cupboard with a hazy expression on his face.

‘Are you alright?’ Hermann says at last, frowning.

‘What? Yeah. Yeah,’ Newt says finally, inconsequentially. His voice oddly strained and he clears his throat before turning around and putting the pan exactly where he’s picked it up from. ‘Okay. Yeah. Uh. I cooked dinner? Well, I mean—dinner’s a bit _relative,_ I guess. What time it is?’

Hermann glances at his wrist and realises he has left his watch in the bedroom along with the rest of his clothes. ‘Middle of the night?’ he says instead, shrugging. 

It gives him an odd thrill, this sense of vagueness, misplacement. Imprecision of measurement. So rarely does he allow himself for such lenience, now it only adds to the eerie sense of improbability surrounding him.

‘Right.’ Newt blinks and nods, as though to himself. He gestures vaguely at the seat opposite to him, which Hermann takes as an invitation to sit.

Newton’s _cooking_ proves, as Hermann doesn’t fail to point out, just as relative as _dinner_ has been. A small plate of Wasabröd crisp bread slices is accompanied by two jam jars, another plate with crackers and the fateful can, which seems to contain tomato passata. Either failing to localise tea of any sort or figuring out how to use the kettle, Newt has settled on providing each of them with a glass of tap water. 

‘Dude,’ Newt says in response to Hermann's remark, voice heavy. ‘It’s a self-service Airbnb in the middle of a Swedish forest. What exactly did you expect, a buffet?’ 

‘I wasn’t _expecting_ anything,’ Hermann says primly. ‘I’m just pointing out this required no _cooking_ on your part.’

Newt licks his lips, eyes narrowed slightly, and shakes his head at Hermann. He picks up one of the jars, wrenches it open with some effort, and sticks his nose inside. 

‘This jam’s a weird colour,’ he says conversationally. ‘Smells good, though.’

Hermann stops mid-opening his own jar with a knife. ‘Define weird.’

‘Kinda … brownish-red?’ Newt hazards, squinting at the label. ‘It says _sylt jordgubb_ on the top, I think that’s supposed to be, like, strawberry.’

Hermann frowns. ‘What other colour would you expect strawberry jam to be?’

Newt shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Pink?’

Hermann blinks and shakes his head. ‘And you’re supposed to be a vegetarian.’

‘Hey, get off my back, man, not all of us have grown up in rural regions hand-fed homemade jam by Julie Andrews herself.’

‘If you think Bavaria is a rural region conductive to harvesting _strawberries_ , Newton, then I am really sorry to break it to you that—’

‘Oh my god, you just cannot let go, can you? Just drop it. _Drop_ it. I eat what I eat.’

‘You _are_ what you eat, you mean,’ Hermann says, voice heavy with irony.

Newt clicks his tongue and shakes his head, ‘Well then, Hermann, I am one juicy pop tart.’

Unable to stop himself Hermann snorts, softly, and then tucks his head in his hand. ‘You are _ridiculous_ ,’ he says quietly, but can’t quite suppress a smile.

Newt is silent. When Hermann looks up, he is—once again—watching him. _Attentively_ , with an odd inscrutable expression on his face.

This time, it’s less aggravating. The vaguely uncomfortable prickly feeling remains, but this time it’s warmer, more expansive. _Distracting_.

Hermann tries not to think about what’s happened in the hallway. They haven’t said a word of it since, but it hangs, thick and unspoken in the air between them. Difficult not to think about it. Difficult not to think about its anti-climactic resolution, its—

Hermann swallows with difficulty and stills. Why can’t he be _easier_. Just once, why cannot he leave his issues on the side, instead of dredging them up like an awful, stinging armour to repel someone he cares for from coming too close. 

Newt’s foot nudges Hermann’s calf under the table. ‘Eat,’ he instructs, pointing to Hermann’s plate. ‘You look just about ready to keel over. You need nutrition.’

Hermann sighs. ‘I doubt _this_ will provide me with much nutrition, Newton—’

To his surprise, Newton laughs. Startled, Hermann looks up, blinking. Newton’s laugh is soft, oddly quiet in comparison to his voice. He is grinning. 

‘Oh my god, shut up,’ he says. ‘Stop bitching for five seconds, you menace, and just _eat_.’

* * *

 

_2:34 am, Rudsjövägen, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

He lies awake.

What a horror: to experience yourself through another. To know you’ve been recognised, catalogued, finally compared to an _idea_ of you, the highest form of existence, impossible to ever achieve.

He wishes it wasn’t so, but any attempt not to think back to Newt’s surprisingly soft mouth cutting him off mid-breath with a kiss proves futile. As soon as Hermann’s eyes fall shut, it is revived in his mind, in vivid detail, impossible to disregard. To suppose they came so close to—

Well, some sort of a _resolution_ , if anything, instead of this odd anti-climax and slow mutual decay into quietness.

They’ve finished their meal in silence. As much as he’d perhaps prefer some clarification, it was the first time their silence was companionable, soothing. Hermann knows to be grateful for that. Newton has lingered in the corridor between their rooms for only a second, but even this seemed too flimsy to treat as anything of any consequence.

Opening his eyes to the trembling particles of dim light inaccessible to penetrate the human eye, Hermann considers the probability of a different universe. 

There’s a silent knock on the door. He nearly chokes on his heart.

In a different universe, perhaps, Hermann would rise from the bed and meet Newton halfway, in the doorway. As it is, he lies silent and unmoving, staring at the ceiling. Logically, he hopes for nothing. Illogically, his heart keeps its frenetic pace even as he presses his eyes shut. 

A moment of silence. A low whine of the door hinges.

Then, ‘Hermann,’ there comes a furtive whisper, ‘are you awake?’

‘No,’ Hermann says, not opening his eyes.

‘Sweet.’

He hears Newton shuffle inside and close the door behind him. Forcing his eyes open, he proceeds to watch him through half-lidded eyes.

To Newton’s credit, he doesn’t look remotely devious _or_ seductive. He looks—kind of _lost_ , actually, wearing a very ugly T-shirt with a picture of a horse which seems to have several holes by the hem. He catches Hermann frowning at him and says, defensively, ‘Stop _judging_ me, you got all the best clothes.’

‘Ah,’ Hermann says, only mildly embarrassed. ‘Apologies.’

Newt hovers by the bed, strangely unwilling to disclose the reason for his visit. After some point, Hermann finds himself ridiculously impatient—for what, he has no clue, yet he finds the anticipation unnerving.

‘For god’s sake, go on, then,’ he snaps finally, in a hushed voice. He still can’t quite shake the feeling of being an intruder in someone else’s house, ‘stop _looming_ over me like the grim reaper and lie down.’ 

‘Oh. Yeah, okay,’ Newt says, sounding oddly relieved.  

The mattress dips under his weight as he sneaks under the covers to Hermann’s right. For a moment, neither says anything, Hermann gazing at the ceiling and listening to his own heartbeat, Newt curled up on his side like a cat, staring down somewhere in the region of Hermann’s knees.

‘I just wanted to say,’ Newt says finally, very quietly. ‘I think you would’ve been a great pilot, Hermann.’

It’s like a bucket of cold water. Hermann grows instantly rigid. ‘Newton—’ he begins, in clumsy warning, but Newton continues, inching slightly closer.

‘But you’re—you’re, like, the smartest person I know, dude. You’re a genius. You’re gonna do stuff with the Jaeger coding and the Breach and all that shit they can’t even _imagine_. You’re going to make it all work and understand the way that other world works. And that’s—so much cooler than just being a pilot.’

Inhaling, Hermann turns to his side.

Newt is—mobile, squirmy even, oddly flighty when approached, but it’s only now occurring to Hermann this incessant erratic movement is heightened by sheer nerves. He wants—he wants a better look, maybe, a _pause_ , so he reaches for Newton’s chin and tilts it upwards, until their eyes meet. There’s that hunted look again, almost frightened, and when Hermann tugs gently at his glasses, Newt stops his hand mid-air.

‘I’m—’ Newton says, sounding disarmingly uncertain. His hand tightens around Hermann’s wrist. He presses his eyes closed. ‘Like, really blind.’

‘I know,’ Hermann says, confused. His grip loosens but Newt holds his wrist in place. ‘But you’re short-sighted.’

‘It’s more of a—control thing.’

Hermann frowns, withdrawing his hand. ‘A control thing?’

Newt bites his lower lip.

‘It’s really hard to be on … on top of everything when you don’t really see what’s around you,’ he says, voice tense. ‘And. It, uh. Messes with my head when I’m not in—when I’m not. You know. In control. It’s a bit like when I’m slipping. And you don’t want to. You know.’

‘I … don’t,’ Hermann says, feeling lost. He chases Newt’s eyes but he refuses to meet his.

‘You—ha. You don’t want to deal with that. Me, being even more of a mess than this,’ Newton says, and he chuckles: a tight-strung tense sound. He licks his lips.

‘So it’s better if I keep it in check. It’s been kind of a wild ride, actually, if we’re being honest. You talk so much about you being a _disappointment_ but—it’s really the other way round. Because being in your proximity is a little bit like, I don’t know, getting cardiac arrest from caffeine overdose when it comes to … to levels of being conductive to _not_ slipping. Which ah, doesn’t really make much sense—but, I guess, maybe makes it easier to explain? Here we are, I was … I was _meant_ to be different but instead I kept saying dumb shit and picking at you because I’m fucking … freaking out, and this was too much to process—and here we are. What I mean to say is … Hermann, I’m _sorry_. For all of it.’

The half-grey shimmering not-quite-light is thick and forgiving. It’s easier to tuck his face into the lavender-scented pillow and inhale, easier to gather himself and speak, despite the rapid fluttering of the heart.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ Hermann whispers, closing his eyes to alleviate the embarrassment of having to look Newton in the face. ‘I didn’t—I did not mean to be so … difficult.’

Silence falls, soft and cottony, encasing Hermann in an odd sense of pliant defeat. Here it is, out in the open, a resolution he hasn’t been hoping for. Or not exactly.

‘If you weren’t difficult, you wouldn’t be you,’ Newt then says, so quietly Hermann thinks he could’ve made it up. He isn’t sure if he is meant to hear at all.

‘And I’m not really interested in that.’ 

Pressing his eyes closed, Hermann doesn’t respond. He feels overwhelmed—hard to tell, with exhaustion or emotion. Perhaps both. The only thing he is sure of seems to be his heart, still hammering against his ribcage as though to pull free. 

 

* * *

  _7:45 am, Rudsjövägen, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

The sharp sound of the alarm clock pierces through sleep, increasing until Hermann reaches over to the nightstand and turns it on.

He opens his eyes and blinks slowly, unhurriedly: seeing hurts. A dull headache of exhaustion just behind the eyes, making it difficult to withstand the lilac-harsh milky light of early morning. The air smells odd, of someone else’s laundry and dust, with another scent recognisable: human, a little bit more familiar than it has any right to be.

Newton’s fuzzy face is pressed into the side of Hermann’s neck. One of his hands has in the night snuck under the hem of Hermann’s T-shirt and hoodie and settled, splayed, across his stomach. He’s warm.

Suddenly completely awake, Hermann doesn’t dare move. He swallows, studying the ceiling instead. His head is blank.

‘You smell nice,’ comes Newt’s voice, sleep-heavy.

Hermann tenses. He feels like he should respond in some manner. ‘Yes, well. I’ve had a shower not so long ago.’

‘No, it’s,’ Newt laughs, quietly, moving slightly as though to stretch, but not disentangling himself from Hermann for a moment. ‘Not just now, it’s like, pheromones. You. I like how you smell.’ 

The thought strikes Hermann as odd, if endearing. ‘Oh,’ he says uncertainly. He considers it. ‘I like how you smell too.’

It’s true.

‘Ha,’ Newt mutters. ‘Nice. We’re compatible.’

Then, ‘Do you think there’s any coffee here?’

 

* * *

_8:15 am, Rudsjövägen, Stockholm, Sweden._

 

He feels sick.

Hermann is pouring water from the funny metal kettle, into the funny plastic funnel with a slice of paper tucked inside which he calls a _dripper_ , looking serious and concentrated. The hood of his hoodie— _Newt’s_ hoodie—is half-pulled onto his head and his dark hair is curling at the temples. He blinks a couple of times, as though to disperse drowsiness and school himself into further focus.

When Newt tries to fix the filter inside the dripper, Hermann tsks, ‘Don’t _touch_ it.’

Newt feels something large and lumpy well up in his throat along with another wave of cold, overwhelming nausea.

The bus comes at 8:30, to take them both to the city centre, where Hermann will board the airport shuttle once again, headed to London, and Newt will saunter back to his hotel, to wait until the next flight to Boston.

Fifteen minutes. He has fifteen minutes to figure out a way in which he wouldn’t want to either die or live in a quaint weird house with Hermann in Scandinavia till they shrivel up and die, together.

‘Now, _this_ is the proper way of making coffee, Newton,’ Hermann says, in a low voice. 

Fifteen minutes. He has fifteen more—

_Fuck._

‘Have you ever wondered,’ Newt says, voice snapping, high-pitched in all the wrong places, ‘how it is, not to live alone?’

A moment of silence. Hermann’s hand seems to tremble, slightly.

‘I am,’ he says, ‘quite used to being alone.’

‘Well,’ Newt says faintly, feeling cold dread mix with the hysterical hammering of a hopeful heart in his ribcage, ‘you could, you know. Get used to not being.’ 

Silence, again.  _Deafening._

Hermann’s dark eyes bore in to him mid-raising the coffee-pot, ‘What exactly is it that you are saying, Newton?’

He throws all caution in the wind. There, in the drafty Swedish Airbnb, over stale coffee and staler crackers and cereal without milk, staring at Hermann’s bony shoulders in his own faded-grey Jurassic Park hoodie, his ruffled hair and the default expression of a rudely challenging frown plastered to a strange and endearing face.

‘Stay with me,’ he blurts out, feeling that his heart could burst. 

Hermann spills the coffee.

 


	3. dear comrade

##### 15th May 2017

 

**dear comrade,** _  
_

_12:47 pm, Boston Logan International Airport, US._

 

It’s unsettling: his own awareness of attachment forming.

He feels as though, instead of merely travelling, he is returning. Someplace he had never been, not physically, but perhaps dreamed of: an unconscious projection of the sleeping brain, hazy and without all the specifying necessary details. A future memory, something to console yourself with when everything is at its worst, something _warm_. And yet, here it seems to be: growing closer with each swaying motion of the plane, in the shape of a new continent. Briefly, he considers a possibility his luggage has been misplaced again: if so, he’ll be sure to make a formal complaint. 

Then again, there are surely _clothes_ in the United States.

There’s a tightness, between his ribs and in the throat, a futile resistance against the affinity he already feels, with this little objectively insignificant point of spacetime. Newton is drowsing again, head tucked into Hermann’s neck, half-tangled in him even as he strains in the security belt: he breathes steadily, deep.

Hermann looks out into the jarring softness of the clouds and tries to redirect his thoughts into perceiving the probability of rain in Boston. He shouldn’t let the frail giddy ache of _possibility_ of what will come and grow between them become too obstructive so he can still breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> *whispers* please talk to me.


End file.
